Читать книгу Playboy's Ruthless Payback - Charlene Sands - Страница 16

Nine

If someone called Mac Valentine an arrogant jerk to his face, he usually agreed with them before kicking them out of his office. He was arrogant. But in his defense he believed he was the best at what he did and that unshakable confidence was the only way to stay at the top of his game. Today, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, he’d had that theory tested and proven correct by one of the clients who, just a few weeks ago, had been running scared after Owen Winston’s foolish attempt to discredit him. After waiting for twenty minutes in the lobby, the client had sat before Mac and had practically begged him to take him back. Whether the man still believed that Mac had given preferential treatment and tips to his other clients or not, being at a competing firm had not proved lucrative and he wanted back in.

Mac pulled into his garage feeling on top of the world. When one client returned, he mused, the others would surely follow—they’d leave Owen Winston and other financial firms and come back to where they belonged.

He cut the engine and grabbed his briefcase and laptop. Today’s success would by no means deter him from getting revenge on Winston. And in fact, he actually felt a stronger desire to follow through on his plans with Olivia. By the end of the weekend, he thought darkly as he stepped out of the car and headed into the house, he would have it all: Owen’s little girl and a powerhouse of a new client to add to his roster.

The heavenly scent of meat and spices, onions and something sweet accosted his senses when he walked through the door. Home sweet home, he thought sarcastically, walking into the kitchen. But once there, he promptly forgot everything he’d just been thinking, plotting and reveling in. In fact, as he took in the sight before him, he realized he had little or no brain left. “You look…”

Olivia stood before the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon. “Like a wife?”

He saw the lightness, the humor in her eyes, but couldn’t find a laugh to save his soul. He cleared his throat, his gaze moving over her hungrily. “I was going to say, breath-stealing—but I suppose you could look wifely, as well.”

She wore pink. He hated pink. He’d always hated pink. It was for flowers or cotton candy. But Olivia Winston in pink was a whole different matter. The dress she wore was cut at the knee and cinched at the waist, and pushed her perfectly round breasts upward, just slightly—just enough so that she looked elegant, yet would also drive a man to drool. Her long dark hair was pulled up to the top of her head, causing her neck to look long and edible, and her dark eyes, still filled with humor, reminded him of warm clay beneath long, black lashes.

And she had wanted him to forget about the other night? Get serious. All Mac wanted was to pull her against him, ease the top of her dress down, fill his hands with her, play with one perfect pink nipple while he suckled the other. His groin tightened almost to the point of pain. He wondered, would she moan as he nuzzled her? Or would she cry out again, allow herself to climax this time?

“Well, thank you for the compliment,” she said, gathering up several bottles of wine. “Would you mind setting those things down and giving me a hand?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

She nodded in the direction of the island. “Wineglasses. Can you grab them and follow me?”

He picked up the spotless glasses that were laid out on a towel on the island and followed her into the dining room.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, setting the bottle down on an impressive black hutch.

This woman wasn’t fooling around. She was damn good at what she did, and it showed in every detail. She’d set the table with unusually modern-looking china, gleaming stemware and silver silk napkins. But the most impressive part was the centerpiece, which sat in the middle of a round walnut table. It looked as though she’d brought the outdoors inside with cut branches from his yard, white candles and small silver bells.

He set down the wineglasses and released a breath. “It’s perfect.”

“Good.” She checked her watch. “Your guests will be here in thirty minutes. You’d better wash up and change your clothes.”

“I have time.”

She gave him an impatient look. “It would be rude, not to mention awkward, if you weren’t here when the doorbell rings.”

“Careful, or someone might think you’re the woman of the house,” Mac said with amusement, wondering how long it would take to kiss that pink gloss off her mouth.

Reaching for the dimmer switch on the wall, Olivia lowered the lights a touch. “For all intents and purposes this weekend, I am.”

His gaze swept over her. “Did I tell you how much I like the color pink?”

“No, you didn’t,” she said primly, putting her arm through his and walking him toward the stairs. “But we really don’t have time for that now. I have a dinner to get on the table, and I won’t allow anything to burn.”

He grinned. “Of course, can’t have things getting too hot now, can we?”

She glared at him, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I think a shower would be good for you.”

He nodded and said with sardonic amusement, “Yes, dear,” then took the stairs two at a time. She was right. He needed a shower, a really cold shower. Hell, he thought, chuckling to himself, he might do better diving into one of those piles of snow burying his lawn.

Harold DeBold was one of those guys people just liked the minute they met him. Hovering somewhere around forty, he was very tall and thin, and had pale blond hair and wintery blue eyes. He reminded Olivia of a surfer, relaxed and free-spirited. His wife Louise, on the other hand, was dark-skinned, dark-eyed, completely city-sexy in her gorgeousness and totally high-strung. But she also seemed sincere, and when she was told that Olivia was going to be their chef for the weekend, instead of thinking it odd that the person Mac had hired to help him was not going to stay in the kitchen and/or serve, but was going to eat and socialize with them, she’d acted as though it were the most normal thing in the world—even adding that she was thrilled that Olivia was going to cook some down-home Minnesota fare for them.

“Honestly,” the woman said to Olivia, curling her diamond-encrusted hand around her wineglass. “I feel like all I’ve eaten for days is foie gras, caviar and squid ink. I’m over it.”

Chuckling, Harold told Mac, “We’ve been in New York for the past week.”

They were waiting for the DeBolds’attorney and her husband to arrive as they sat in Mac’s den, which had been completely transformed into a contemporary, masculine, but family-friendly retreat with his two existing leather chairs and several other pieces of dark blue chenille furniture curled around the fire. Cozy rugs dressed the hardwood floor, and lights had been installed outside to showcase the wintery-forest view from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Mac reached over and topped off Louise’s wine. “You two were in Manhattan for a week and you didn’t get around to pasta?”

Louise snorted. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Next time you go, let me know,” Mac said seriously. “There’s this tiny hole-in-the-wall in Little Italy that you’ve got to check out. The spiciest pasta puttanesca—not to mention the best-tasting parmesan cheese I’ve ever had.”

“Cheese.” Chuckling, Harold said with dramatic flair, “City folk think that all us backcountry Wisconsinites get to eat is cheese, so they refuse to take us anywhere that might serve it. Instead, they figure they’ve got to impress us with all those fancy, unpronounceable, unrecognizable foods.” As he said the last word he mimed air quotes.

Olivia held out a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Well, everything you’re going to eat tonight is as easy to pronounce as it is to eat.”

Louise sipped her wine and said, “Thank God.”

Harold took one of Olivia’s famous blue cheese jalapeño poppers wrapped in bacon and practically sighed when he ate it. “Oh, my,” he said to Olivia, his blue eyes so warm she couldn’t help but wonder if he was flirting with her just a little bit. “If these are any indication of your culinary skill, then you might never get me to leave.”

Louise agreed. “These tomato basil tarts are over the top.”

Olivia smiled, pleased that her fun and flavorful finger food was such a hit. “Thank you.”

“Are you self-taught, Olivia?” Louise asked.

“I actually went to culinary school, then I worked for several chefs in town before starting my business.”

Harold’s brows drew together. “And what kind of business is that exactly? Catering? Or are you a personal chef?”

Olivia looked over at Mac, who was sitting in a dark blue wing-back chair by the fire. He didn’t appear concerned by the question, and even winked at her, so she was as honest as she needed to be. “Myself and two other women provide catering, decorating, party planning …those kinds of services to clients.”

“And are your clients mostly clueless men or women?” Louise asked, her eyes dancing with humor until she realized she was including her host in that question. She offered him an apologetic smile. “Of course, I didn’t mean you, Mac.”

Mac laughed. “No apology necessary—I know where my skills lie and they’re not in the kitchen.”

“Mine, either, sadly,” Louise said on a sigh.

“All it takes is a little practice,” Olivia told Louise sympathetically.

Harold shook his head wistfully. “She has tried, Olivia.”

“Hey, there.” Louise gave him a playful swat on the arm.

The doorbell chimed over the laughter in the room, and Mac stood. “I’ll get that. Must be Avery.”

When Mac was gone, Harold turned to Olivia. “My lawyer and her husband are great people, and are usually very punctual.”

Olivia smiled warmly. “We’re in no rush tonight.”

“I like that attitude,” Louise said, snatching up another tomato tart. Male laughter erupted from the front hall, and Louise rolled her eyes. “Boys. We just found out that Mac went to college with Tim, fraternity buddies or something.”

It was as if time slowed after Louise had said the name Tim, and Olivia couldn’t seem to find her breath. Even the room spun slightly. “Tim?” she managed to say. “That’s your attorney’s husband?”

Louise may have answered her, but Olivia’s ears were buzzing. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.

“Sorry we’re late,” came a voice that Olivia recognized at once. She swallowed. What was in her throat? It felt like a rock. She wouldn’t turn around—couldn’t turn around. He was coming and she felt frozen to the couch.

“Avery couldn’t decide on which shoes to wear,” he said dryly.

“Don’t you blame me, Tim Keavy, you know it was your fault.” The woman sniffed and added, “The Vikings game was on.”

“Typical.” Mac chuckled. “Avery, Tim, I’d like to introduce our amazing chef for the evening.”

No.… She didn’t want to.

“Olivia?” Mac said.

She wasn’t ready.…

“Olivia?” Mac said louder, sounding puzzled now.

Her heart slamming against her ribs in a noxious rhythm of fear and dread, Olivia turned around to see the one person in the world who knew her secret—the boy who, nine years ago, had walked in on an affair between a teacher and a student. A boy who had made a young Olivia Winston feel like trash from that day forward.